


All Art is Quite Useless

by SkyborneVeggies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Loneliness, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyborneVeggies/pseuds/SkyborneVeggies
Summary: France has traded his soul for the sake of his people.AU in which the countries are able to live eternally by way of Dorian Gray-like portraits.Originally posted on ff.net in 2014





	All Art is Quite Useless

The portrait makes him sick, really. He hates to look at it, hates to see himself old and withered, skin yellowed like parchment. Blood stains at his veined hands, eyes trained ahead in hollow, sickened gaze.

He's grotesque.

But even more than that he hates,  _hates_ , that he can't do anything to stop it, can't turn things in reverse. His disgust in himself just increases with years.

Though he supposes that every nation's looks like his. It is the price, after all, and innocence is not an option. Happiness is not an option. Morality, even, is not an option, although sometimes he has wishes it was.

He suddenly wonders what Angleterre's looks like. He wonders if his has the same cruel stare, same quirk of the lip. Does he hate himself as much as he does? He wants to say that he hopes that he doesn't, but somehow he feels like he's lying.

* * *

Their eyes catch eachothers, if just for a second, as they cross their paths in the hall. And they are both beautiful,  _so beautiful_  and empty, and it's hurting inside just to look.

But then England really does try to show his to him, and he finds that he doesn't want to see after all. So he covers his eyes as he turns, and then runs. _If you don't see it then it can't exist.  
_

At the end of the day, they end all tangled up, although neither admits how they got there. And it just smells like sweat and sex and disdain. It's ok though, because they don't care. But he still strokes his hair, soft short locks while he sleeps, and mumbles sweet nothings to no one. He'll stay till the morning, because he has a heart, and it's saying he should be in love. So he must be, of course, and the portrait's just lying, on the inside they're really just fine.

Two people this beautiful aren't possibly sick.


End file.
